CHAPTER 15
Ciara’s POV:
The steam inside the master bathroom was thick enough to read as smoke, smelling heavily of my favorite honey and coconut body wash.
Water ran down my spine in hot, therapeutic rivers, washing away the lingering lake silt, the chill of the mountain air, and the last stubborn layers of urban dread that had stayed glued to my bones for a full week.
I leaned my forehead against the cool, wet subway tiles of the shower wall, closing my eyes as the water drummed against my back.
I couldn't stop smiling if I tried. Every time I closed my eyes, my brain replayed the absolute majesty of that mountain lake—the crystal-clear water, the towering pines framing the sky, and the image of Joshua standing in the shallows like a Greek god carved out of bronze.
Six-foot-eight of raw, muscle-bound perfection, looking at me like I was the only woman on the face of the earth.
Joshua.
Just the thought of his lips pressed against mine out in that water made a sudden, liquid heat bloom deep in my lower stomach.
The man was a walking contradiction—a quiet, soft-spoken psychologist who could analyze your deepest trauma with absolute gentleness, but held a wild, protective darkness beneath the surface that made me feel safer than a vault in Fort Knox.
I turned off the shower, stepping out onto the plush bathmat and wrapping an oversized towel around my wet braids.
Wiping the condensation off the oval mirror with my palm, I stared at my reflection.
The swelling on my cheekbone was completely gone.
My skin was smooth, dark, and glowing, totally restored.
Joshua’s magic hands and midnight ointment routines had done their job.
I unhooked my pink silk robe from the back of the door, slipping my arms into the cold, liquid-smooth sleeves and tying the sash tightly around my waist. The fabric draped over my curves like a second skin.
When I stepped out of the bathroom and walked down the hallway toward the kitchen, the mouthwatering aroma of crushed garlic, fresh basil, and rich marinara sauce hit me like a physical wave. The scent filled the rustic wooden hall, making my stomach let out a loud, traitorous rumble.
Joshua was standing at the stainless-steel stove, his broad back turned to me. His upper half was completely bare, displaying every rippling muscle along his spine and shoulders, while a pair of low-slung, dark grey workout shorts hung loosely off his waist.
"Mmm, something smells like heaven in here, Doc," I said, leaning my shoulder against the doorframe, admiring the view.
Joshua turned his head, those piercing light eyes locking onto mine, a slow, breathtaking smile spreading across his face as his gaze trailed down the length of my pink silk robe.
"Just whipping up a quick arrabbiata sauce for our pasta," he said, his deep baritone humming through the quiet room. He held out a wooden spoon toward me. "Do me a favor? Keep an eye on this pot and give it a stir every couple of minutes while I take a quick shower. Don't let it burn, sweetheart."
"Excuse me? You're trusting me with executive culinary decisions?" I teased, pushing off the doorframe and walking up to him.
He wrapped a massive, warm arm around my waist, pulling me flush against his side, his thumb stroking my hip through the silk.
"I trust you with my life, Ciara. I think you can handle a pot of sauce if you can bake.
" He kissed the top of my head, leaving a trailing burn of warmth against my forehead. "I'll be five minutes."
"Take your time, Big Guy," I murmured, sliding my hand around his waist to give his firm hip a playful squeeze before he headed down the hall.
While the marinara sauce simmered gently, bubbling and spitting tiny aromatic droplets against the stainless steel, I pulled my phone out of my robe pocket.
I remembered my promise to my mother. If I didn't call her the second we settled in, she’d probably have Detective Jones send an emergency chopper up the mountain.
I hit her speed dial and put the phone to my ear, listening to it ring twice before she picked up.
"Ciara? Baby, tell me y'all made it!" my mother shouted into the receiver, her voice filled with that signature southern urgency.
I laughed softly, using my free hand to stir the wooden spoon in a slow circle through the thick, red sauce. "Yes, Ma. We reached safe and sound. We've been here for a couple of hours already. We actually just got back from taking a swim down in the lake."
"A swim? In the lake? Lord, ain't it freezing up in those hills?"
"It was crisp at first, Ma, but it felt amazing. The air out here is so clean, you can literally taste the pine. The cabin is huge—three whole bedrooms, wrap-around porch, floor-to-ceiling glass... it's pure luxury."
"Hallelujah," my mother sighed, the relief thick in her tone. "That sweet man is treating you right. Put Joshua on the line, let me thank him properly for keeping my spirit at ease."
"He’s in the shower right now, Ma. He just got out of the water himself. I’ll tell him you said hello, or he can talk to you later tonight."
"Alright, alright. Don't go disturbing the man while he’s getting fresh," she chuckled warmly.
Then her tone turned thoughtful. "You know, hearing you talk about that place... maybe one of these days, when all this mess with that boy Morgan is settled, I’ll have to come up there to those cabins and sit by that lake to unwind my own nerves. "
"Ma, Joshua would absolutely love that," I said, a genuine smile warming my face. "He’s got extra rooms up here, and he loves hosting. You’d probably never leave."
"Well, don't tempt me! You hold onto that good doctor, Ciara. I’m praying for y'all every night. Call me tomorrow before lunch!"
"Will do, Ma. Love you."
"Love you too, baby."
I hung up the phone, leaning back against the counter with a deep, contented sigh. I turned the stove burner down to a low, barely-there simmer, letting the marinara thicken at its own pace.
With a few minutes to kill before Joshua finished his shower, I walked out of the kitchen and into the living room. I grabbed the remote off the side table, clicking the flat-screen TV mounted above the fireplace on, setting it to a local news station just to keep a low ambient hum in the room.
The news anchor’s voice filtered softly through the living room speakers, talking about local weather patterns before transitioning into crime updates. A familiar graphic popped up on the corner of the screen: MISSING PERSON: AMANDA WILDE.
I glanced up, my eyes scanning the screen briefly.
The picture showed a pretty, delicate blonde woman with wide, trusting eyes.
The news anchor reported that authorities were still following up on cold leads regarding her sudden disappearance, but no new evidence had surfaced.
I shook my head softly, feeling a brief pang of sympathy for her family.
The world was full of tragic, unresolved mysteries.
I turned away from the TV, planning to head back toward the kitchen, when a sudden, sharp reflection caught my eye.
Something was catching the ambient light from the floor-to-ceiling windows, gleaming with an almost blinding, metallic brilliance from the surface of the heavy oak coffee table.
I walked over, leaning down to inspect it.
Resting on a small dark cloth near a stack of leather-bound books was a tool I had never seen up close before.
It wasn't a pocket knife, and it certainly wasn't a kitchen utility. It was a surgical stencil knife—an exquisite, ultra-refined instrument made of solid, polished tungsten steel. The handle was carved with precise, cross-hatched ergonomic grips, and the blade at the tip was impossibly thin, gleaming like liquid silver under the room’s warm lighting.
"Damn... what is this?" I muttered to myself, completely captivated by the sheer, industrial beauty of the thing.
I reached out, my fingers wrapping around the cool, heavy metal handle. It felt perfectly balanced in my palm—light, yet menacingly substantial. The craftsmanship was immaculate.
Without really thinking, driven by pure curiosity to see just how sharp a blade like that actually was, I raised the knife to my left wrist. I didn't press down—I barely, lightly grazed the very top layer of my skin with the edge of the blade, applying no more pressure than a feather falling.
Zip.
I gasped softly.
Before my brain could even register a sensation of pain, a razor-thin, microscopic line opened up on the side of my wrist. A second later, a single, perfect bead of dark red blood welled up along the tiny line.
"Holy shit," I whispered, my eyes widening in absolute shock as I stared at my wrist. "This thing is lethal. I didn't even push!"
The edge was so sharp it felt entirely frictionless.
If I had applied even an ounce of actual pressure, that blade would have sliced right through my pulse point before I could even blink.
It was terrifying—and strangely mesmerizing.
I raised my wrist to my mouth, licking the tiny bead of warm blood dry.
It was nothing more than a superficial cat-scratch, but the sheer, unforgiving precision of the steel gave me a sudden, visceral shiver.
The distant click of the bathroom door opening down the hall broke my trance.
My head snapped toward the hallway, my heart jumping slightly. I quickly laid the stencil knife back onto its cloth on the coffee table, smoothing my pink robe down, and walked swiftly back into the kitchen as if I had never left the stove.
I grabbed the wooden spoon, giving the marinara sauce a vigorous stir just as heavy, quiet footsteps sounded behind me.